


your eyes close with my dreams

by merthyr



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark Hermione Granger, F/M, Unhealthy Relationships, dark... in general, horcrux, riddle diary fuckery, yes just the one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-10-09 23:53:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10424631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merthyr/pseuds/merthyr
Summary: Hello? Who’s there?The words ooze across the page, curling and scripting, before fading from view. The words began again, faster and tilted, and her eyes widen when she realizes what's being written.Hominum Revelio.OR: The soul is a shadow, and a Horucrux is the steel trap in the dark. Hermione finds herself caught.





	

 

 

 

>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> I love you like this because I don’t know any other way to love,
> 
> except in this form in which I am not nor are you,   
> 
> so close that your hand upon my chest is mine,   
> 
> so close that your eyes close with my dreams.

 

Professor Binns fades away as the student's file out.

She’s among the last to stand, packing her red-feather quill and everlasting ink away with a fastidiousness bordering on mania. She tries to close her bag, two buttons on each end, but for some reason her hands are shaking and she just can’t get the button through the slit. The ridiculousness of it all only incenses her further. God, why won’t it just go _in_?

“Hermione?” Calls a gentle voice.

The button yanks loose and it’s shiny enamel winks at her from her palm. She looks up to find Neville at the door, his head tilted at a dangerously sympathetic angle.

“I’m fine.” Hermione says, not sounding very fine at all.

He squints. “...Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m perfectly--.” She tries to spell the thread back together, but it’s no good, the fiber stubbornly refuses to fix. She’ll have to put it back together by hand. “ _Ugh_ . I’m _fine_ , Neville, everything is _fine_.”

Neville takes a few steps in and sits himself on the edge of a desk. “Alright.” He says, and that’s all it takes to lift the latch and open the waterways.

“It’s just, it’s irresponsible isn’t it? Sitting up there and basically declaring that since the Death Eaters were eradicated all the problems they stirred up are suddenly gone? How absolutely ridiculous! As if there isn’t still prejudice every day! As if I… We… The _muggleborns_...” The words start sticking to her tongue, too close to let go, and all that’s left for her is to heave a great sigh.

She swallows it down, like she always seems to, and primly finishes, “I think Professor Binns’ lecture missed the context of the situation.”

“I agree.”

“You do?” The corners of her mouth tick up just a tad before she shakes her head, “Of course you do. You’re always so sensitive, Neville.”

His eyes lower when he smiles, his lashes fanning over his cheeks. “Yeah, that’s me, I guess.”

“I meant it as a good thing.”

“I know you did. But you’re right, you know, about the other thing. My da was mentioning it last summer with those deaths and… I suppose you already know what I’m on about.”

Hermione worries the curve of her lips between her teeth, thoughtful and wary. “The Prophet said it was a coincidence. An accident.”

Neville shakes his head, “I’m not even supposed to know this, but that day my da almost-- Well. We talked about it afterwards, once he got back from Mungo’s, you know, and he let a few things slip. I shouldn’t say this, but I think you’ve as much a right to know as I do.” He gets up from his perch and comes close, to the very front of the classroom, and murmurs quietly into her space, “They didn’t close the investigation like they said they did. Two muggleborns might be a coincidence, but three? And only a few days before the anniversary of the Dark Lady’s death?”

“A one-off thing.” She says stubbornly, hopefully, before, “You never mentioned your father was put in Mungo’s after that.”

He shrugs, “Wasn’t allowed to.”

“Then it wasn’t…?”

“No,” His eyes become shrouded, “It wasn’t.”

 

.

.

.

 

It’s her free period and she really should be annotating her notes right now, but instead she’s off to the library for completely unscholarly reasons. She isn’t running, because one does not run in the hallways, but she does walk very quickly. It’s Friday, so there will be an unfortunate amount of people clogging up the stacks, but she wants to see this thought through while it’s still stamped on the forefront of her mind.

She doesn’t even realize Harry Potter is rounding the corner until their shoulders collide. Books and parchment spill from under his arms and out of her unclasped bag in an explosion of chaotic academia, and they both flop to the ground immediately to rummage among the wreck.

“Sorry, Granger.” Potter says with careless charm, “Think these are yours… No, wait, definitely these ones.” He scrunches some of the paper he’d picked up into her bag --she winces as it wrinkles-- and piles most of the books into her arms.

“Yes, thank you.” Hermione says shortly.

He nods, she nods, and he’s on his way again, off to do… whatever it is that Potter does. Certainly not study, she thinks with a sniff, watching him walk away in a half-on Quidditch kit, hair as wild as always and his poor books hanging thoughtlessly under his armpit.

As she expected, the library is bustling. She edges along the sides, consciously avoiding the copse of studying tables in the front of the room which never seemed to be used for their true purpose. Hermione is not at all surprised to see Pansy Parkinson and Madlen Selwyn giggling over something or another-- probably Teagan Dearborn, who has the misfortune of being handsome and in sight. Pansy isn’t even making a pretence of studying, her herbology book sitting uncracked under her elbows while she hides tizzied whispers behind her hands.

Pansy’s eyes catch hers and the whispers stop, pause consideringly, and begin again with vigour. Hermione flashes them an imperious look before disappearing into the books, letting their savage laughter fade into the distance.

In a back corner, far from the popular picture windows and the hustle and bustle of bookshelves, is the newspaper repository. Stacks and stacks of big black envelopes, dated and dusty, fill the wall from floor to ceiling, with not so much as a gap between the goliathan boxes that hold them. Hermione summons the ladder and tip toes to the top, gnawing her lip as she sorts and pushes through yesteryears.

She doesn’t scavenge long. July 1987 sits a little off kilter from the rest, probably rifled through more often then all the other months that year combined. She walks the envelope to a table and carefully pries it open. There it is, July 31st 1987. Not so long ago, really. She sets aside the mundane morning paper in favor of the evening edition’s blaring title.

**_THE DARK LADY IS DEAD!_ **

_Earlier this evening Bellatrix Lestrange was killed by her cousin, famed Auror Sirius Black, as she attempted to flee across the channel to her husband’s family in France. Black is currently being treated at St. Mungo’s in the Spell Damage Department, but is expected to make a full recovery._

She skims the article, already aware of everything that had been printed. Sirius Black survived, received the Order of Merlin, went on to become the Ministry’s top Auror, and according to Professor Binns, everything was fine forever after. She read the back, the front, and the pages in between. Nothing seems important, but she still has a niggling feeling that she’s missing the details. Silently she shuffles everything back into it’s place, but not before the headline for July 26th catches from the corner her eye.

**_FOUR DEAD IN DORCHESTER_ **

Four, not three, and done the week before, but it was an act committed by Bellatrix herself just before her death, and there had been something… strange about the attack last summer. Something artificial in the way the bodies had been found, lying casually in the living room, unmarked and with no sign of struggle, not a scant few hours after their deaths. A potion gone wrong, The Prophet had said, a miasma made by recently graduated students who’d never received their N.E.W.T.S.

But Neville had said his father was put in Mungo’s. Of course, as an auror and a first responder, he may have been hit by the same fumes as the dead, but then why wouldn’t the Prophet have mentioned that? It was all so very strange.

She read on.

The casualties in Dorchester included two recently graduated muggleborn sisters, Heather and Jennifer Leavey, their mother, and Heather’s boyfriend-- their non-magical mother was irritatingly left unnamed in the article, which made Hermione scowl something fierce. The last casualty, who died after what was described as an awesome and terrible duel with Bellatrix Lestrange herself, was James Potter.

The name was excruciatingly familiar. She was sure it must be Potter’s father --she’d never heard of any other Potter’s-- but she’d never even considered that he might be dead. She clearly remembered Harry Potter’s parents excitedly sending him off just last month. They’d been standing beside her own family's quieter goodbyes, and she’d remembered… Well, that part didn’t matter. What mattered was there’d been a woman with green eyes, just like Potter’s, and a man with the same thick black hair. Yes, she was _sure_ they’d been his parents, because she had thought to herself how well balanced he was between the two, both dark and light.

But there, at the bottom of the article, was the undeniable truth.

_Auror James Potter leaves behind his wife, Lily Potter, and their young son Harry._

Oh. Hermione had never known-- she’d never _had_ to know, and yet she felt bad all the same. Was this something she should express her condolences for? No, of course not, it had happened years ago. Besides, when did she ever speak to Potter?

.

.

.

Hermione leaves the library with buzzing ears and busy thoughts.

There were commonalities to be sure. Recently graduated muggleborn girls with an auror involved in the same month. But of course, law enforcement should be involved, it was only natural. There was no need to create false equivalencies! Surely Neville didn’t mean to stir the pot, but he was prone to over-exaggerations from time to time, and he was rather forgetful of the details...

And yet.

Hermione’s feet freeze when she steps out the door, blocks of stone weighing her down and tipping her over. She falls hard, her breath smashing out of her lungs as her elbows clack painfully on the flagstones.

Pansy laughs before anyone else does, before she even hits the ground.

She picks herself up with all the dignity allowed to her, tossing her head back to glare, deadly as Medusa. She thinks sinful thoughts as she sees Parkinson and Selwyn lean on each other in a sniggering, sputtering heap. A few other students giggle from the fringes, but her attention is given to her housemates-- Dearborn, red tie shining, does nothing but stare, and Pavarti beside him has her hand held in front of the shocked ‘o’ of her mouth.

Hermione is soon glad she looked behind her instead of trouncing away, because Hermione sees a flash of bottle-ink blue beneath the Slytherin girls’ table. She snaps out her own wand and has just enough time to whisper a hurried ward that swallows the spell like bubblegum over a bead.

Hermione doesn’t send anything back even though she wants to, because one does not duel in the library. But she isn’t going to forget Madlen’s smirk any time soon, and she _will_ be sure to get them back.

Pavarti finally remembers herself and smacks Dearborn on the arm, “Tea, do something.”

Dearborn’s eyes cross, clearly more brawn than brain, and asks. “Oh, right... Do what?”

Hermione rolls her eyes and slouches off. So much for House Solidarity.

.

.

.

By now she simply wants to be alone with her books, preferably with a cup of cocoa.

Hermione storms into the girl’s room and gives Evalyn Bones (her favorite housemate simply by virtue of being the most quiet) a perfunctory nod before closing herself into the cave of her bed with a yank of the curtains and a well cast silencing charm.

First she takes the button from her pocket and resews it to her bag, because she just _knows_ she won’t be able to concentrate without it over and done with. The next hour she dedicates to her herbology homework, spitting out the first draft of her essay with perhaps a few more angry ink spots along the edges than usual. By the time she’s done she nearly feels like herself again, not calm --never calm-- but _focused_.

Or, at least she thought she was. It takes her more than half a second to realize the little black book she’d pulled from her bag wasn’t actually _her_ little black book. Her quill was already out, nib poised to press to the paper, but she stopped and thought, goodness, just where are my annotated charms notes, I spent ages on them--?

And the littlest drop of ink drips from the tip and drops on the page.

It spreads like a rorschach, far and wide, much farther than it should with just that tiny little dot for fodder. Her eyes squint in thought, a hundred possibilities whirring the cogs in her mind, but even still what happens next surprises her.

 _Hello? Who’s there?_ The words ooze across the page, curling and scripting, before fading from view.

“How odd.” Hermione says aloud, quite puzzled over the what’s and where’s of it, but otherwise unconcerned. After all, she hadn’t been in the restricted section, and there was no real reason for her to have found a cursed object in Hogwarts. She would bring it to a professor, McGonagall perhaps, and mayhaps she could explain to Hermione just what was it she’d found. It must be a very complex bit of magic, to speak to her so, unless it was scripted.

The words began again, faster and tilted, and her eyes widen when she realizes what’s being written _._

_Hominum Revelio._

The book stretches open before she can close it, paper ripping past like a film roll tumbling down a projector before it stops, quite suddenly, on the date. September 30th.

“Oh, no.” Hermione says at last, quite regretting her N.E.W.T worthy silencing charm, before her vision tips forward and her body is lifted from the bed.

.

.

.

Her breath comes back to her body with a great crash. Head spinning she leans against a cold stone wall, palms to her lids, trying desperately to squeeze the stars from her eyes. With effort she opens them, but what she sees before her throws her through a loop.

Why, she was still in Hogwarts! Hermione was in one of the many stone corridors, the Transfiguration Wing if she had to guess, but it was quiet and dark, and all she could see out the window was a half moon hung in black. Had it only transported her? But it couldn’t have been later than sunset before, and the moon seemed close to midnight. Besides, how could the book have moved her so, when a Hogwarts: A History said apparition and portkeys were made null on school grounds?

“What are you doing out of bed at this hour?”

Her head snaps up, her hand flying to the cuff of her sleeve where her wand lays hid. There, down the hallway, standing still as death in the dim starlight, was a boy she’d never met before. He was tall, dark haired and pale faced, with narrowed almond eyes and he--

He was handsome. So handsome, in fact, that she was immediately on guard.

The words tumbled out before she had time to think. “Who are you?”

The strange boy’s head tilted consideringly, a dark curl drifting down his brow, “I could ask you the same.” He says, his voice smooth, and steady, and so very _practiced_.

Something about that voice made Hermione press herself closer to the wall. Where was she? She didn’t think she was in Hogwarts. There was a strangeness in her surroundings-- it was dark, yes, but more than that it was gray, faded, foggy. And what was _he_? Was he meant to lead her astray, further into the book’s prison? To cajole her with polite words and a pretty face and… tempt her? Her nose wrinkled at the very thought, but she had to take in all the possibilities because something inside her, ancient and wary, knew that she was in danger.

Hermione’s heart was beginning to erupt from her chest, but her head was on straight. If he was truly a student, then there was simply no way she wouldn’t remember this boy, and so for now she would treat him as an imposter. Her gaze lingered on his eyes, pondering their coolness, before flickering to his green tie, precisely placed, and the little silver badge pinned to his chest.

“Are you meant to be Head Boy?” She asks warily. If this boy (thing) really was meant to tempt her, she was offended by how on the nose it was.

“Yes. I am.” He smiled, both sides of his mouth perfectly aligned, “Are you meant to be a Gryffindor?”

There was just the slightest hint of mockery in her voice and it galled her. “Yes, I’m ‘meant to be’ a Gryffindor.” Her eyes flash with something fierce as she decides, with both great thought and none at all, to pull out her wand. “But I’ve had enough of this. How do I get out of here?”

The smile doesn’t leave his face-- it evolves, lips thinning and eyes narrowing. “It’s very simple.” He says, and his wand is out, between one moment and the next, and a red light comes hurtling towards her--

And passes through her, like she isn't there at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Couldn't resist the urge to throw my shitty Tomione fic onto the pile. 
> 
> I think this chapter might sort of kind count as a prologue, which is funny, because I never write them. As you can probably tell, this fic's universe is pretty AU. More will reveal itself as time goes on. Until then, I hoped you like this little snippet! Please let me know what you think, I am hopelessly shallow and live for reviews. Thanks for reading!


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